Turning a New Leaf
by SiobhanP
Summary: In which Roger gets off smack and is taught some very important life lessons by one Mark Cohen, who has some things to figure out himself. MR preRENT.
1. Chapter 1

Turning a New Leaf(1/?)

Pairing: M/R.

Rating: R.

Summary: In which Roger gets off smack, and is taught some very important life lessons by one Mark Cohen.

Disclaimer: It's not mine.

Notes/Warnings: Apologies for the melodrama. References to rape.

---

Against his rising nausea and despite the even more sickening feeling of an impending migraine, Mark made himself watch as his friend guided the needle into his already puncture-ridden vein. Roger's hands were wracked with tremors as he pushed the plunger, and Mark could no longer tell if it was simply nervousness from the magnitude of what he was doing or the other, more familiar sort of shivering.

Which ever it was, Roger's near immediate relief was apparent. His eyes slid shut as though it were merely a natural thing, and the syringe slid out of his hand and shattered on the ground. Mark saw every moment of its descent, but he still jumped at the sound. If he'd seen Roger do this a thousand times, it had done nothing to help his tolerance for it. In fact, if he were telling the truth, even seeing the tiny baggies of white powder left a resonating sense of dread in the back of his mind. Mark was – and he was not in the least ashamed to admit it - scared shitless of heroin. True, he'd never had much of a stomach for needles or blood, but then, watching someone get a flu shot didn't leave him green around the gills.

"Mark?" Roger started, almost in a small voice.

Mark jumped, surprised that Roger had been the one to break the silence; then, in a soft voice that was somewhat rough around the edges, he replied, "Yeah?"

"It's… done," Roger breathed in a way that expressed a profound relief that Mark somehow, perhaps only because of wishful thinking, couldn't believe came strictly from the drug. "Can I… have a minute?"

In spite of his guilt at the feeling, Mark was so relieved at the chance for escape that he left immediately, not even saying anything more. As soon as he left the bedroom, he made a beeline for the telephone.

Collins had wanted him to call, had wanted to be there in the first place, and Maureen hadn't even believed Roger when he'd sworn he was done as soon as this most recent supply ran out. Granted, no one had really seen any solid evidence he was sincere – they wouldn't, not until this (hopefully) last high had worn off and it was down to a battle between Roger's strength and his addiction, but Collins and Mark had believed from the moment he'd torn off the tourniquet and made his vow. If Roger said it, he meant it. He had to mean he was at least going to try.

Still, he had nothing either Maureen or Benny would call concrete, and knowing the road ahead of him – of them, he amended, for surely Roger would suffer from it worse than he – he couldn't face any doubts being thrown in his face at the moment.

And so it was that it was Collins' voice that answered him. "Tom Collins speaking," he said, in a collected, professional tone that Mark knew would go down the drain the moment Collins heard his voice.

"Collins," he greeted, trying to muster some cheer. Finding none within himself to give, he got straight to the point, echoing Roger's own words, "It's done. Or he just did it, rather."

"Ah," Collins replied slowly in a serious, considering tone, and Mark could almost see him holding his temples between thumb and forefinger, massaging slowly. "Guess I better get my ass back there and give you kids a hand, huh?"

"If you can find the time, I'd feel better," Mark admitted a little hesitantly, "but I don't know if there's too much you can do."

"Well, I can be there," Collins offered optimistically. "S'gotta count for something, right?"

"Yeah," Mark agreed, hoping his lack of conviction wasn't obvious. "Well, look, I just… thought you should know."

"Uh huh," Collins agreed, though he sounded hollow, as if there were something else taxing his mind. Very shortly, that "something else" came out. "Look, Mark, I know you'll do your best, and I know Roger's really gonna try… but you've done your research and you know just as damn well as I do that that boy needs a medically supervised detox."

Mark sighed and removed his glasses, squeezing the bridge of his nose against the headache that was once more threatening to escalate. "Yeah, Collins, I do know," he said tiredly, his voice a little sharp beneath his exhaustion. "But he won't do it, and they can't make him stay. What am I supposed to do, turn him in for possession then forget about it? He's better here with me without a doctor than in jail with one."

Surprisingly, Collins laughed, "Yeah, you got that right. Pretty boy like that'd be someone's bitch inside a day." In truth, Mark found the comment a little distasteful, but couldn't find it in him to be angry with Collins for needing to find something funny about the situation. Despite – or maybe due to – Mark's silence, Collins seemed to sense he'd said too much. "Look, man, I'm sorry. I know it's not something to be joking around about."

"No," Mark shook his head, for all that the phone was attached to his ear and it was a meaningless gesture. "Collins, come on. You know Roger. He's putting himself through hell, and the first thing he's gonna do to cope is joke about it. Remember last time he tried this, when he tried it without telling anyone? I found him crying his eyes out in bed in the fetal position. His legs just… quit on him, and he couldn't get up to take a piss, and the stubborn bastard wouldn't just ask for help… but I find him, and the first thing he does is give me this smile that almost looks like it hurts and go, 'See, this is just my coping method. I've regressed to the abilities of a 2 year old.' And okay, so it wasn't funny, but it was sarcasm, and I've got the distinct impression I'm gonna hear a lot of it."

"And can you deal with that?" Collins asked, with a kindness that undercut the bluntness of his question.

"I'm gonna have to," Mark's reply held a tell-tale waver of uncertainty that even he heard. The pulsing in his head was mounting now, and before Collins could remark on his answer, he said, "Look, Collins, I've gotta go. And I'd make something up, but truth is I've got nothing. I've got a headache and someone who's pretty much a dependent…" Not something he'd ever let Roger hear, but Roger was too high to remember anything even if he heard it, at the moment. "Wanting to go take some Tylenol's a good enough reason to go. But you're welcome whenever you can make it."

"Thanks," Collins acknowledged, thankfully not sounding upset. "You'll probably hear from me this weekend, okay?"

"Yeah. Bye," Mark heaved a heavy sigh and all but dropped the phone back into its cradle, then made his way to the small lock-box that held he and Roger's medications, very much looking forward to the oblivion that a somewhat too-large dose of Tylenol 3s would afford. It was a little hypocritical, he supposed, but he definitely needed the pain relief, and the stress plaguing him had to find an outlet of some sort. Codeine and heroin might be opiates alike, but the difference between them, Mark felt, was stark. He knew drug users of all sorts – from alcoholic bums, to harmless stoners of Collins' ilk, even casual users of harder drugs (Mark knew very few people who wouldn't be willing to take the odd blotter tab or line of morphine, though most of them would have shied away at the thought of injection), to all-out junkies. Even the junkies – especially the junkies – all had human faces to him, and whatever their habits pertaining to recreational drugs, it was secondary.

Mark took four of the pills and washed them down with a glass of milk, hoping to pre-empt any stomach difficulty the drug might provoke. When he went to put the medicine bottle back, he paused over one of the labels he saw. Clonidine. Those pills had been a gift from Benny, "on the off chance he actually goes through with it." The prescription on the two bottles carried someone else's name – by Mark's guess, a Hispanic woman's – but the dosage instructions were for heroin withdrawal, and no mistake. Mark had found what little information he could on the drug, and discovered that it was generally employed as a sedative or surgical anesthetic. It was reassuring enough information – even if it didn't treat the real withdrawal symptoms, it sounded like it could reduce Roger's suffering simply by virtue of its analgesic effects. Mark was hesitant to dispense with the medication, though. He didn't like not knowing everything he should about it.

When he snapped out of his contemplative haze, he sat down on the couch with a book in his lap. Though he didn't really process what he was seeing, he stared at its cover for a long time, until he began to feel the first, relaxing alerts of the drug. That it happened so fast surprised him a little; he remembered upon deeper thought that he hadn't eaten all day. At first, it brought the pain in his head back down to a dull roar, but as his thought process slowed and a faint sense of euphoria blossomed within him, any trace of discomfort was squelched. Mark was in heaven, or as close to it as he was like to get any time soon. He knew Roger would pass out for at least five hours following the heroin wearing off - it was ritual, like a host of other things - and although he was probably going to wake up fiending for a hit, that was only mental. The hell yet to come wasn't due for about another twenty-four hours.

But was it bad, Mark wondered, that it was the high more than the pain relief that had helped him? Possibly, but then, it was no different than several other times he'd done it, and it never affected his daily life. No, Mark decided, Roger's mistakes weren't his, and to internalize his worries over them would only cause problems he didn't need.

With that decision made, Mark's head gradually began to loll towards his chest, and eventually he slept the same sleep he'd predicted for Roger – the drug induced sleep of the dead.

Twenty-four hours later, Roger was a mess. The withdrawal syndrome had come out of nowhere – the drug had worn off, and for a little while, he'd almost been normal again. Then Mark had left him alone on the couch long enough to go to the bathroom, and he'd returned to find Roger collapsed in a shivering heap in front of their now vomit-streaked garbage can. It had taken him about five seconds to decide that he was going to take advantage of Benny's backhanded kindness, at least to see what relief it would afford him. After he'd gotten Roger to take both the clonidine and some Tylenol, he somehow managed to maneuver his larger and largely limp friend into his bed.

Roger hadn't eaten since his last injection, and had scarcely even taken water. He was wracked with tremors so badly they seemed to be coming not only from his muscles but from just below his skin, producing an array of odd twitches that didn't move his limbs, only their flesh. He was sobbing with an agony that Mark knew to be beyond his comprehension. It was a terrible sound, he was crying with all the shamelessness of a baby, but for all that, when he could muster words, Mark usually found them to be hopeful ones. Mark had been expecting him to grow hostile, and wasn't yet ready to rule out the possibility, but for the moment Roger seemed to be behaving the exact opposite way. It made him needy and open to affection, even the sort, as Mark was about to discover, that ran the risk of crossing lines they'd both drawn years before.

Mark had entered Roger's bedroom with a cup of weak sugared tea, and immediately gauged his trembling to be too severe to allow him to handle the hot liquid. It was with that decided that he sat down on the bed beside the small ball that was Roger, setting the cup on the bedside table. Roger seemed aware of his presence – when Mark glanced down he was greeted by dull blue eyes locked intently on him – but appeared to be unwilling or unable to move. Mark rested a hand gently on his shoulder for a few seconds, making sure Roger knew who was touching him and why before speaking.

"Hey, Roger," Mark said softly, staring directly back into his unblinking eyes despite the effort it cost him. "You've gotta sit up, okay?"

Roger gave him the finger and made a series of low mumbling noises that Mark could tell were supposed to be words in defense of his independence. In spite of himself, Mark laughed, encouraged by the half-hearted show of pride. Following the act of defiance, though, Roger obliged him and slowly rolled onto his back and straightened his arms, managing to push himself to a sitting position. He slumped against Mark almost immediately when the smaller man moved to his side, and bowed his head towards the proffered mug. Mark lifted it to Roger's lips, holding it completely steady. Roger didn't much look like he wanted any part of it, but took a few obliging sips regardless. After, Mark reached behind him and set the cup on the head of the mate's bed.

"How you feeling?" Mark asked quietly, sliding his arm down lower and wrapping it around the small of Roger's back, trying to offer his still shivering friend a somewhat greater measure of support. To his surprise, Roger let out another, sudden strangled sob and turned towards Mark, burying his face against the blonde's collarbone. He was repeating something feverishly through his tears – which had already soaked through Mark's shirt – but Mark couldn't make sense of them, so he pulled his friend into his lap, an act that shouldn't have been anywhere near as easy as it was, and began trying to soothe him.

"Shh, Rog," Mark said gently, rubbing his back. "Calm down, just say it a little slower and I'll get it, I promise." Roger's trembling almost rose revulsion in him, but he was able to keep it at bay by constantly reminding himself who this was: his best friend, who'd only begun this vicious cycle to assuage the emotional pain brought on by far too many things. At first it had been his rape – and though it had been nearly ten years ago, when he was fifteen, Mark had the sneaking suspicion he'd never really dealt with it – then his diagnosis, then April's suicide… Roger had never lacked for reasons to want to escape reality. He'd never really dealt with any of his emotional traumas, either. He was hurt, but Mark didn't want to leave him alone, didn't want to add any more bitterness or loneliness to a life that had known too much of it already.

Roger stopped babbling for a moment, long enough to draw a shuddering breath and stop what excess shaking had been caused by his tears. In fact, if Mark wasn't wrong, even some of his less controllable movement had abated. Maybe Benny had been some help. Then, in a clear if weak voice, he spoke.

"Mark, I'm sorry," he said clearly, looking plaintive. Mark fought the stab of unnamed emotion that rose in him, bowing his head and closing his eyes to hide it.

"It's all right, Roger," he breathed. "Just keep strong, okay? Just do your best; that's all any of us want from you."

Roger was crying again, with the same terrible abandon as before, but this time his frantic words were intelligible. "Don't let me, Mark," he pleaded, muffled by Mark's shoulder. "Don't let me go back to that, please; I can't. I want to," he confessed brokenly, as though it should have been a surprise. "Oh, God, Mark, do I want to. But I can't do it. I can't go through people looking at me like they do, I can't have all this pain when I can't get a fix… I'm not a man anymore, Mark. I'm using my own fatal flaw against myself over and over, and it's killing me. It's killing me faster than the virus has any chance of doing, and…"

"Roger," Mark interrupted firmly, tension rising throughout his entire body, tension Roger had to be able to feel. It might have been doing him some good to talk, but he was getting so excited that his actions were beginning to border on panicked, and provoking a stress response would only bring him more pain. "Please. I'll do everything I can, I swear. As long as you try, I promise I'll be here; I promise I'll do my best to keep you from it. We'll take care of you, Roger, all of us. Maybe not Benny, at least not more than in his own way, but Maureen, Collins… Collins is taking leave and coming here, Roger, because he believes in you. You'll never have to do this alone."

Roger sniffled, still in the unselfconscious manner of a child. "I don't deserve it."

Forcing himself to relax, Mark guided Roger's chin gently back upwards, bringing them eye-to-eye and in very close proximity. For the first time, he made note of the fact that between the sweating and Roger's inability to tend to even his most basic hygienic needs, the smell of both Roger and the room had become less than pleasant. As of yet, he'd retained enough self-mastery to make it to the bathroom when he needed to, or at least tell Mark when it was absolutely necessary, but that was the extent of his ability to take care of himself. Mark could think of nothing more undignified, and that alone was already beginning to take its toll on Roger's spirit. Suddenly filled with a compassion that transcended his disgusted feelings, he wiped the remaining tears clinging to Roger's cheeks with the pads of his thumbs and tucked the wayward wisps of hair that were clinging to his forehead behind his ears.

"You'll be okay," he murmured, almost more for his own benefit than Roger's. He brought his other arm around Roger's torso, and Roger seemed to wilt into it a little, as though abandoning the last of his resolve and giving himself into Mark's trust. "You'll be fine. But I don't ever want to hear you say that, you understand? It doesn't matter what you think you deserve – which, incidentally, is a lot more than you think – it matters what your friends know you deserve."

"It wasn't April's fault," Roger insisted suddenly, his hands fisting in the tail of Mark's shirt.

Mark started at that. He was willing to admit that not only hadn't he liked April, but that secretly he'd always blame her a little both for Roger's addiction and his infection. Some day, hopefully years from now, when they finally lost him, Mark would breathe a fruitless curse directed at the dead woman. But Roger knew none of it, so for him to have said what he just did left Mark more than a little taken aback.

In fact, he was so startled that Roger was the next one to act, in a manner that left Mark even more shocked. Almost completely steady and clean of his tears, Roger closed the last inch between them and pressed his lips against Mark's in a motion that was almost too delicate to call a kiss.

But a kiss was what it had been, and no mistake. Mark felt himself go red, felt himself lean forward a little as if in protest when Roger pulled back. His mind unfroze, then instantly began racing. Was he assuming too much? Maybe it had just been friendly. Maybe Roger had been too addled to know what he was doing.

Maybe, Mark thought as he leaned forward to capture the other man's lips again, not sure if he was responding to an invitation or doing it of his own volition, maybe he should stop thinking so much. And for about a minute, it looked as if he'd thought right. Roger's hesitation, it seemed, had been borne of not knowing how Mark would react, and now that he did, he was sparing no effort. If he wasn't particularly skilful at the moment, he put all of what little he had into it, enough so that he heard Mark make a small sound that seemed to be a protest when he drew away again.

Then they stared at each other, each second seeming an eternity, until there was a pounding at the door. Mark was slow to react to it, and slower to remove Roger from his lap. He set him back down in a reasonably comfortable position; he was as much the dutiful caretaker as he'd ever been in his physical actions, but neither of them knew what to say. Failing a fight or a declaration of love, neither of which was forthcoming, there seemed to be no way to address their current situation. And so Mark went to the door, the pounding escalating as he did. Then, when he was about to answer it, he heard a familiar voice all but scream, "Mark Cohen, you let me in here right now!" Suddenly, his stomach crashed into his shoes.

Maureen.


	2. Chapter 2

In the end, guilt-sick and confused, Mark left Roger to Maureen's not-quite-as-gentle care, with very firm instructions not to hesitate in the dispensation of either painkillers or clonidine. He paced the streets without aim, sometimes with a blank mind, other times thinking a mile a minute. Roger hadn't been in good shape when Maureen had entered, of course. He was all but starving himself and suffering withdrawals besides. However, he hadn't done anything to give even the slightest indication that seconds before Maureen had bounced into the room he'd been sitting on her boyfriend's lap with his tongue in his mouth. Mark hadn't been able to make himself be so discreet. Maureen would speak and he wouldn't hear a word she'd said, too busy staring blankly and blushing.

Which wasn't to say that Mark's problem was in any way tied to his friend's gender – Hell, gender in Alphabet City was basically an opt-in convention, and biological sex had no bearing on it – or even really Maureen. Maureen's notion of fidelity was loose at best, and besides, nothing had to come of it. Mark did love him; had for some time, but it was in a way that seemed to transcend actual romance. Until just recently, when he was really the only one Roger had left, neither of them had ever even thought of it. Maybe, for all he knew, Roger still hadn't. Their present situation demanded trust and intimacy on an almost staggering level, and maybe to Roger that had just been a natural extension, the only way he knew to offer thanks that would seem at all substantial.

It certainly almost seemed as much, because when Mark returned to the loft, Roger behaved about as normally as he could under the circumstances, at least for a little while. The clonidine helped, that much was clear, but he was still in more than enough pain, and when he wasn't in pain he was antsy. Maureen had gotten him to eat a piece of toast in Mark's absence. It came back up twenty minutes after he got home. Roger wept bitterly for it – or at least it was enough to start him crying again, at any rate, and Mark was tempted to follow suit. How was he supposed to take care of someone who couldn't stomach even the smallest amount of food? He seemed able to manage apple juice and had no qualms about swallowing a multi-vitamin (those were from Maureen, who didn't "want Roger's bony ass getting anymore malnourished"), but Mark knew that the pills were ideally to be taken with a meal, or at least something with some fat to speak of.

Even though he'd improved greatly since he'd first collapsed that morning, Roger still always seemed able to find something worthy of tears. At first it was smaller things – the dizzying nausea, the actual vomiting, and simply the fact that he had no control over his emotions whatsoever. Quickly, though, the small problems escalated back to full-fledged withdrawals, and Mark cursed himself for following the directions on the pill bottle instead of dispensing them as he felt necessary. He knew overdose wasn't really a risk, about the worst thing they'd do to Roger was knock him out, which at this point would probably have seemed a blessed respite. Mark gave him the pills an hour early, then set about doing what he could to reduce Roger's discomfort. A hot flash had brought him out of his clothes – he was sitting on the couch in nothing but a pair of sweat-damp boxers – and Mark had thought to use the opportunity to apply some Ben Gay to his back, which still plagued him with pangs of pain. That hadn't gone well, because in the midst of the application Roger whimpered and drew his knees to his chest, trying to keep the warmth he'd seconds ago so hated.

Rather than attempt to dress him, as his shaking had begun once more, Mark put them both under an Afghan Maureen had gotten them from somewhere. Ignoring the more confusing things it stirred within him, Mark found himself holding his friend once more. It was doing precious little to help him with the cold, but Roger seemed to feel what little it was doing helped, because he made himself as small as possible, small enough to be comfortably enfolded between Mark and the blankets. As the cold subsided, though in it's own time, Roger's shivering stopped, but it only served to make Mark acutely aware of the tiny, telling tremors that wracked him every time he breathed. He could feel Roger fighting the urge to bend double from some unknown muscle pain. And it wasn't long before Mark heard his own breathing patterns shift to mirror Roger's. That was when he began to suspect he was putting himself through too much; Mark never cried in front of other people. His throat ached and each breath shook him, making tiny sounds he willed the guitarist not to hear. Roger heard it anyway, and his reaction, as childish as it was, broke Mark's heart.

"Please don't cry," he whispered in a tiny voice drawn tight with pain. "Not over this. Because I can't do this if it's going to make you cry, Mark. I can't make you upset for my mistakes; you don't deserve it."

It only served to make Mark ache to sob even more, and this time it was Roger who had to piece together words from tears, though even then Mark was rather more coherent than he'd been. His voice cracked and trembled a little, but he still appeared wholly in control. "You're gonna have to let me, Rog. Watching this hurts," he admitted, relenting to the guiding pressure Roger was exerting on his neck and lowering his head to rest gently against the juncture of the bigger man's neck and shoulder. "But it's got nothing on what losing you again would do." Mark was a little shocked by his own honesty. It probably had a lot to do with how vulnerable Roger was at the moment; he couldn't have said it in any other circumstances. "Sometimes pain doesn't mean you should stop, sometimes pain's just a rite of passage."

Roger smiled weakly, a feigned gesture made only for Mark's comfort, then protested softly, "But you didn't do anything to deserve it."

Having regained his composure a little, Mark managed a serious look, staring Roger in the eye. "You talk a lot about what we deserve, Roger," he said softly, "but you don't have the first idea. Everyone deserves to have somebody care about them, doesn't matter how they've fucked up. And this right now… It's got nothing to do with what I deserve or don't. It's just where I chose to be."

"But why?" Roger demanded, so insistently that Mark wasn't sure he'd be able to form an answer to his satisfaction. In the end, he didn't even try, he just said what he knew in his gut.

"Because it's you," Mark explained shortly. "Because you're my friend no matter how your karma's stacked right now. I want you to get better. Besides, playing nurse might not be easy, but it's got nothing on what you're putting yourself through. If you're determined enough to go through all this, helping you out's the least I can do. Maybe you made the mistake in the first place, but making it right… I've really got to admire you for even trying, you know?"

"Don't," Roger said curtly, biting his lip to hide his pained grimace. Mark noticed it anyway, it was easy to tell – the lines in his face grew deep and apparent when he was worried or in pain. Roger continued, "If you're really okay with all this… I can't pretend to understand, Mark. I really can't. I guess all that's left is thanks for what you've done already, and I want you to know I won't blame you if you ever decide you can't do this any more."

"Doesn't matter a damn," Mark replied airily, having decided that leaving the mood in its present state was dangerous. "I'll blame me; that's enough. Sorry buddy, but I think you're stuck with me."

Roger sighed, "Mark Cohen, I swear. I'm never gonna get you, not if I make a hundred." He paused. "You know, whatever the hell it is you're feeding me, it really works. It's not perfect, but I feel a hell of a lot better." Though he regretted thinking it, Mark couldn't help but observe that despite the obvious improvement in his condition, Roger hadn't said or done anything about their proximity. Problem was, now that their contact didn't seem to be Roger's last tie to reality, Mark's mind was going places it most definitely should not have been. Not that the fact that he found Roger attractive was news, or even that it meant much, but he'd never been so acutely aware of it. And why not, Mark considered grimly, when anyone who saw us right now and didn't know would think we were lovers.

Their eyes met, and despite the inquisitive, prompting look in Roger's, neither broke the gaze until Roger shrugged, then tilted his head back and dropped a light kiss on Mark's jaw. Mark laughed nervously, trying desperately to remember what they were supposed to be talking about.

When he remembered, he blurted in a shaky voice, "Speaking of feeding you…" Mark started, hoping he could coax Roger into taking something, even if it were juice.

But unless Mark was wrong (which he seemed to be thinking a lot lately), and it was looking less and less like he was, he saw a hurt look cross his friend's face at Mark's dismissal.

He recovered quickly, though, and made a face and shook his head. "Definite no. Where'd you get those things, anyway?"

Mark considered lying, knowing Roger wouldn't like the truth, but in the end he knew it was useless. He'd probably find out the truth eventually, and if it had come from any source but Mark, Mark knew he'd never hear the end of it. "Benny threw some money at it," he admitted. "I have no idea."

"Oh," Roger said simply. A moment later his nose wrinkled and he said, "You know I can't take those anymore now, right?"

"What?" Mark asked immediately, sounding worried even though he'd yet to fully process the implications of Roger's statement.

"You heard me, Cohen," Roger shot back, grinning in an almost-sincere way. "If I'm doing this, it's gonna be without ending up beholden to Benny." As soon as he finished talking, his eyes flicked to Mark's again, and though Mark only blushed and glanced toward the window, he saw enough to confirm his suspicions.

"Mark," Roger began, almost sounding like a parent or a teacher who knew he'd done something wrong, "how long has it been since you slept?"

Mark shrugged. He'd slept a couple hours after he'd taken the T3s, and had been just getting ready to catch a few hours when Roger had woken up. Granted, he hadn't actually needed Mark yet, but Mark had found himself spending the rest of the night – or the morning, more aptly – talking to Roger. Still, not wanting to get caught in a lie, he told the truth, phrasing it in a way that didn't sound as bad. "Last night, while you were sleeping."

"So in other words, you're dead on your feet," Roger extrapolated, raising his eyebrows. "Right then. Bedtime for Marky."

Though he didn't dare do it, Mark wanted to shake his head, slightly awed. Would Roger never be done surprising him? Not ten minutes ago he hadn't even had the presence of mind to be able to tend to his own well-being, and now he was telling Mark to sleep?

But he was right, Mark realized. He'd slept maybe five of the past fourty-eight hours, and he was running on stress, caffeine, and worry. He knew he would have eventually resorted to catching ten-minute fragments of sleep whenever he could, and he knew that that course would only lead to Collins making him sleep.

Mark knew Roger's logic was good, and he knew that the fact he'd said anything was only an expression of concern. Concern, at this point, was something it was only fair to let Roger return, at least if he felt he needed to. "Fine," Mark sighed loudly, making his reluctance clear. "But promise me you'll get me the minute you think you might even sort of need me."

Roger shrugged. "Mark, there are people who do this by telling whoever they live with they have the flu and living in bed. It won't kill me not to have you for a few hours."

Mark looked at him with eyes like chips of ice, didn't avert his eyes or blush. "Roger," he insisted sternly.

"Yeah, fine," Roger agreed. "But you know, I was thinking about getting some sleep anyway. You could just stay here with me. Fuck, we're well equipped," he pointed out, gesturing at the mess of pillows and blankets strewn about the couch.

Well, Mark thought, that would be enough to make him sure he'd be there if need be, and besides, it wasn't unheard of for either he or Roger to pass out on the couch just for a change of scenery. When your mattress wasn't any more comfortable than the couch, the couch became a much more popular bed. But… "Both of us?" Mark asked, trying to sound confused.

Roger laughed. "No, genius, I was gonna sleep on the coffee table. Yes, both of us," Roger snorted, sliding off of Mark's lap and tossing a gigantic overstuffed pillow into the corner of the couch. "Then you won't have to be worried, not that you need to be, and I'll have some company. We both win." Roger seemed reluctant to abandon the Afghan, even for another blanket, as though even the few seconds of exposure to the open air would freeze him. Mark was about to let him have it, to curl up on the other end of the couch with a different blanket where it was safe, when Roger flopped back against the pillow, blanket be damned, and crooked a finger at him expectantly. Like Roger sprawled lazily against a cushion in his boxers, beckoning to him, was really a mental image Mark needed.

Immediately, Mark went a shade of red to rival his sweater. "Uh, Roger, I don't think…"

"I do," Roger replied, looking at him blandly, as if issuing a challenge. "This place is fucking freezing, Mark, and don't tell me it's just me. Christ, you look like I just asked if I could bend you over the coffee table and…"

"Fine," Mark interrupted tersely, his voice cracking a little. "You're right; it's no big deal." Well, at least Roger didn't seem to think so, which answered a lot of questions. Ignoring the butterflies in his stomach, he crawled into the space Roger had made for him. He had a comfortable amount of room to sleep, but the amount of space between he and Roger – which was to say, none – was anything but comfortable. And neither did Roger seem inclined to make it easy on him.

"You're wearing that to sleep?" he asked Mark incredulously. "I mean, keep them on if you don't have underwear or something, but jeans? Who sleeps in jeans?"

Me, Mark wanted to say, even though he knew there was truth in what Roger was saying. But this, he sensed, was something Roger was set on, for whatever reason, and obliging him would be a lot faster than arguing. For all his discomfort, Mark was too exhausted to let anything else delay his sleep. He stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers then laid back down. They laid in a comfortable silence for a little while – comfortable for Roger, at least, who seemed the most at peace he'd been in a long time. Mark, on the other hand, couldn't help but feel he'd gotten in over his head. Anyone else who'd said or done half of the things Roger had to him in the past day would have ended up in his bed long ago, at least if not for Maureen. Contrary to popular opinion, Mark was not meek by nature. But this seemed different. Like somehow, unbelievably, Roger was completely unaware how he was making things seem. But that couldn't be true. No, for all his suffering, for the fact that his blood sugar had to be ridiculously low, even for the infection that was turning the welts on his forearm rigid and yellow-green… Roger was lucid, when he wasn't distressed. Granted, he wouldn't have had those lucid times without the medication, but they were there, and aside from his seeming flirting with Mark, they almost made him his old self.

But Mark was too tired to worry anymore, not unless he had to. He was about to fall asleep when the situation became a "had to." As soon as it had seemed polite, Mark had turned to face the back of the couch, hoping to deter Roger from initiating any more of his oh-so-frustrating contact. It didn't work. It wasn't a minute after Mark moved that Roger began spooning with him. He tensed momentarily in Roger's arms, then drew a deep breath and released the tension in his muscles when he breathed out. Right, he decided, the easiest way to get out of this was to ignore the fact that it had even happened. So he did, pretending to sleep, hoping Roger wouldn't have one of his sleepless nights. If he outlasted Roger, he could free himself and sleep.

As it turned out, he didn't. Once he'd been forced to focus on it, he'd realized just how fatigued he was. He was sick with exhaustion, and his body's weakness quickly overwhelmed his mind. Mark was still asleep when Roger rolled of the couch and away from him. In his sleep, Mark's mind had no control over his baser wants, and he whimpered in protest and pawed at the spot where Roger's hands had been. It gave Roger cause for pause – he spent the better half of the next ten minutes kneeling beside the couch, watching Mark's face for any trace of wakefulness. For all his patience, though, he couldn't help taking one last risk – he stroked Mark's cheek with the back of his hand, murmuring an apology. Then he grabbed his jacket and his wallet and left through the fire escape, gradually relaxing as he slipped into the anonymity of the night.

Two days, he thought, a sick feeling in his stomach. He'd made it two days, and that was with help from both Mark and the medicine. Two fucking days, not even long enough for the withdrawal to reach its worst. 'Just give the hell up, Davis, you fucking junkie scum,' he thought darkly. 'Not like anyone's gonna miss you.' His heart gave a sick little offbeat thud in his chest, as if to remind him he knew he was lying to himself. Collins cared. Maureen cared. Even Benny. April couldn't care about anything any more, but he liked to believe she would have wanted him to get better. He thought she would.

Mark's name popped into his head unbidden, and just acknowledging his existence hurt. He'd been so good about everything. Kept him physically alive, done everything in his power to keep him as comfortable as he could. Held him while it seemed like the world was crumbling around him, let him cry and didn't try to stop it, just tried to make him feel better. To say nothing of the fact that if it were anyone but Roger, he knew Mark would have confronted them about the way he'd been playing with him. Not that he meant to be doing it, not at all. It was just that his strength – his confidence – came and went at whim. He'd resolved to say something honest more than once, but every time he tried, he'd do something stupid. Whether it was kissing him that morning then not having the words to say why, or his bit of blatant flirting on the couch. He'd gotten what he wanted, then he'd run out the door, back into the embrace of a lover not nearly so concerned with his health. But even now, when he was still dry-mouthed and a little foggy from the drug, he thought of Mark, and for short moment, he longed to take it back. All he'd done, and this was how Roger repaid him? He shouldn't even have had the money to do it. Food, his AZT, electricity… all of it cost money. He should have given the money to Mark.

But the thoughts gave him guilt, and guilt spurred still more craving for the drug. Before he could find his strength, before he could tell himself he didn't need it and that he'd betrayed Mark enough… His common sense never had a chance. He had the work and the powder sitting right in front of him on the bed. It was too easy to resist. Within seconds, candle already lit and supplies at hand, he had the solution mixed and in the syringe. Within a minute, he'd injected it.

Within a half second, Roger knew with sudden, terrifying clarity that he'd die without intervention. He'd been desperate, gotten foolish with it, and somehow he'd used what would have been a three day supply within three hours. The next thing he knew, which would have been a welcome revelation under other circumstances, was that he wanted to live.

With the last full-chested breath he drew, Roger screamed.


	3. Chapter 3

Mark was on his feet the moment Roger's cry reached his ears. He was running before he'd even fully processed that he was awake. He breathed a silent prayer of thanks when he'd confirmed that the door wasn't locked, but swore violently when he opened it. Roger was laying on the ground, the tourniquet still around his arm and the syringe on the ground beside him. The rise and fall of his chest had slowed dramatically, and when he did breathe it was a gasping, shallow sound. Mark heard him choke weakly, then gag, and hurried to turn him on his side, barely aware of what he was doing. Hot bile spewed out of Roger's mouth, then he heaved unsuccessfully a few times before another trickle came out, commingled with his saliva. Any other time, Mark might have vomited himself – he couldn't stand watching or hearing anyone else throw up. Now, though, Roger's eyes were locked on him, and somewhere hidden in the murky, clouded green was a look of terror so genuine Mark knew what had happened almost immediately. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, making him oblivious to his own weaknesses. After making sure Roger was propped up on his side with a pillow, he ran to the telephone and dialed 911.

"Nine-one-one," a tired sounding male voice answered, "which service do you require?"

"Ambulance," Mark replied a little shakily, his emotions beginning to catch up with him. Now, mostly, he was scared. He thought it would probably give way to rage eventually, but now there was no room for anything but fear.

"All right," the man said, and his voice changed to a professional yet somehow soothing tone. "What's happened?"

Mark tried to breathe deep, but his chest was tight, and all it did was remind him that at that very moment his best friend was all but suffocating on his bedroom floor in a puddle of his own vomit.

"Sir?" the man prompted.

Mark swallowed. "I'm pretty sure my roommate just overdosed on heroin. Can't have been more than five minutes ago, he was injecting and it's gotten worse since I found him."

"Any other drugs in his system?"

Mark considered for a second, then said honestly, "Acetaminophen and clonidine."

"His name?"

"Roger Davis."

"And yours?"

"Mark Cohen," he answered, noticing that he no longer sounded panicked, just hollow and tired. And suddenly Mark knew that no matter how much Roger deserved it, he wouldn't be able to muster any anger. No, he thought, he'd break from exhaustion and disappointment before he could get angry.

It scared him, because he knew he'd stay, until either his body or his mind wouldn't allow it any more.

Mark answered a few more questions – Roger's birthday, his, their address - before the man told him an ambulance was on its way. Mark didn't want to go back, but he knew he had to, and even if he hadn't had to, he'd have felt guilty enough to do it.

Roger was making strange, squirming motions that were nothing like the shivering. Even though Mark was nearly positive they weren't, they looked deliberate and controlled. He moved Roger away from the spot where he'd been sick, wiped his mouth with a tissue, then sat down beside him. One of Mark's hands cradled his own head – he was beyond putting on a show of strength - and the other grasped Roger's. He'd become nearly irresponsive to most stimuli, but his hand was closed around Mark's. It was a weak grip, but it was undeniably there.

Where normally Mark would talk, either to assuage his own discomfort or calm Roger, he was silent. He didn't have words. Watching Roger suffer for his own stupidity didn't quite stir the feelings that watching him hurt because he was trying to get better did. Mark would stick by him come hell or high water, but it didn't mean that there weren't certain times he'd be a lot happier about doing it.

Mark practically jumped out of the paramedics' way when they arrived, sitting miserably on the end of Roger's bed with his knees pulled to his chest. The first thing they did was haul him onto a stretcher. He could tell – though maybe he was imagining it – Roger wanted to protest when a tube attached to a bag was forced into his throat. Somewhere below the fog, Mark could tell his old hatred of hospitals and doctors was beginning to surface.

The male paramedic drew in a sharp breath when he turned Roger's forearm upwards. Mark knew what he saw – a pussy, scabbed mess of track marks and welts. "Bloody junkies," the paramedic murmured to himself as he stabbed a needle into Roger's bicep, not so much derisive as awed. "How bad do you have to want something to do this to yourself?"

Mark agreed, though for him it was a sad thought, but found it disgustingly unprofessional and was almost sick with the need to know something, anything, about what was going on.

The female paramedic seemed to sense it, because as soon as they got the stretcher moving, she began talking to him. Her first concern was nowhere near what Mark's was, though.

"You have anything in your system right now?" she asked. It was strange. It wasn't a threatening question at all; it seemed as if she were genuinely concerned.

Mark shook his head. "No. My taste doesn't usually run to shit that dangerous."

"It's hard, isn't it?" she asked empathetically. "Loving somebody like that."

Somewhere in the back of his mind Mark realized the woman had gotten the wrong impression about his relationship with Roger, but he didn't have the energy to correct her; besides, she was right, after a fashion. He nodded, then almost whispered, "He has HIV." Right after saying it, he regretted it, then hastened to ask, "He'll be okay?"

"Well, you got to him in time, that's the most important part," she reassured. "The sedatives might have been a complication, but he was still breathing on his own when we got to him, and that was the big worry. Technically means he didn't really OD. If it was just the heroin, his system might've been able to handle it."

"Then why the…" Mark stopped helplessly, gesturing to the bag.

"Better safe than sorry. But we've got some naloxone into him, so yes, I'm guessing he'll be fine. We'll take it out en route. But he's lucky," she told him sternly, trying to make a point. "Keeping this up… the shape his arms are in, if nothing else… you know there are heroin addicts who have to have amputations?"

Mark felt like he was being lectured, but he couldn't muster a reply any better than a placating, miserable, "He was trying to quit," shaking his head slowly so as not to aggravate the pounding in his skull. He didn't have the time for a headache, but they were brought on by stress, and there wasn't much he could do about it but cope.

"The ones who OD usually are," the woman replied simply. Their conversation died as Roger was loaded into the ambulance. The male paramedic drove, much to Mark's relief, and he and the woman stayed with Roger. Mark rested his hands over one of Roger's, staring into space. He jumped when Roger moaned and his eyes flickered. There was alertness in them, and it was both a relief and a worry. Yes, it probably meant he'd be fine, but…

"Uhm, I don't know exactly how to say this, but… How awake is he going to get?" Mark queried nervously. "He, uh…"

"Doesn't like hospitals?" the woman finished knowingly. "Chances are he's got a reason for it."

Mark knew. Roger had been to the same hospital to get diagnosed. Mark had had to make him do it. It was the only time he'd left the loft for anything but drugs since April died. Roger had been to the same hospital when April had overdosed. He'd had his stomach pumped there after a rather too enthusiastic night of drinking; Collins had made him go there after someone had slipped him dirty ecstasy, sensing there was something wrong. He'd had a seizure shortly after arriving. Yes, Mark thought with a bitter sort of humor, Roger did have reason to hate the hospital. Most of them his own fault.

"They won't give him more sedatives, not right now," she shook her head. "Does he get violent?"

Mark chewed on his lip. "Not with me," he said, then reconsidered. He'd never actually seen Roger hit anyone without due provocation, but he'd seen him get close to it, when he was in one of his genuinely scary moods. He'd seen the bruises he sometimes came home with after a night out. "Waking up in a strange environment just might do it, though."

"They'll hold him overnight, unless he gets strong enough to leave himself," she warned. "Then there's nothing they can do; it's his right."

"Yeah," Mark said defeatedly, "believe me, I know." Benny had offered to pay for a proper rehab. Benny really did mean well sometimes. But Mark hadn't even conveyed the offer to Roger, knowing what his response would have been.

Mark had had another concern ever since he'd realized Roger was likely to be admitted, even if it was just overnight. "They won't let me see him, will they?"

The woman gave him an almost conspiratorial look and shrugged. "Depends how much hell you're willing to raise about it. Depends on if he wakes up and begs to see you."

Mark wasn't sure Roger would ask for him specifically, but if by some miracle he didn't lose it completely when he realized where he was, he knew he'd ask for his friends. If he were still loopy enough, he'd probably ask for April. "How lucid's he gonna be when he wakes up?"

"Sober and dopesick," she replied, and Mark frowned, uncertain that "dopesick" qualified as sobriety. "The naloxone blocks opiate receptors completely for about an hour. Then it all comes back. If he goes irresponsive again, they'll give him more naloxone. Otherwise, they'll just let him ride it out. But… look, I'm not supposed to tell you this, it's crossing the line into personal information, but if he really wants off it… well, relapses are par for the course. The more determined they are, the less it'll happen, and I'm not saying no one ever does it on the first try… but don't give up on him. I don't know anything about the situation, but it sounds to me like he needs you. At the least, he'd probably be dead if you hadn't been there."

Those words left a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, one that lingered as they arrived and Roger was whisked away. Mark was left alone in the waiting room, sitting with his arms crossed over his stomach and jiggling his knee. Eventually, a nurse came out to the waiting room with a clipboard, and asked the room at large, "Mark Cohen?"

Mark hesitantly indicated himself, raising his middle and pointer fingers.

"We'll need to ask you some questions," he began, "but first we'd like you to go see Mr. Davis. He's in… some distress, and his condition doesn't allow for sedation."

"Yeah, well, it's Roger in withdrawal in a hospital," Mark replied, a little rudely, "I could have told you that myself." Then he considered how Roger was probably behaving and felt guilty for snapping. Roger would be giving them enough problems. "Sorry. Just… worried. Getting a migraine." Mark almost added that he'd barely slept and he was starving, but decided that the man probably wasn't too concerned with him.

To Mark's surprise, the man smiled encouragingly, adding a touch of humanity to his otherwise professional demeanour. "Says good things about you that you're worried, kid. It's harder to care than to let it go, but if more people cared this fucking place wouldn't have all the problems it does. As for your head… I can't do much for you. Sorry, but you're not a patient. It gets worse, you find a doctor and tell them." He paused. "You should go see him now."

"Right," Mark agreed, following the man to a small partitioned in the back of the emergency room. He heard Roger before he saw him.

His voice was a thready shout, given strength by the abject terror it held. "Get that fucking thing away from me!" What he saw matched what he heard perfectly. Roger looked drawn and haggard, and he was shivering in the restraints that bound his hands and feet to the bed. A nurse stood nearby with an IV, but everytime she got within five feet of the bed, Roger would begin thrashing in such a way that inserting the needle would have been impossible. His friend's fear moved him, but he knew Roger was almost certainly in the wrong. Whatever they were giving him, he probably needed it. Mark stayed just behind the curtain where Roger couldn't see him and gestured for the nurse to approach him. Looking confused, she did.

"Mark Cohen," he explained in a whisper, and by the look on her face, she'd heard the name. She seemed relieved. "What is it you're trying to give him?"

"It's just a sugar solution. He's dehydrated and his blood sugar came back about 2.5. It's amazing he's got the energy he does, he should be half-blind."

Mark nodded, taking in the information. He'd been right; it was definitely in Roger's best interest. "Let me talk to him?" Mark offered uncertainly.

The woman nodded hastily, clearly relieved, and Mark made his way to Roger's bedside. His eyes were clenched shut as though he were trying to protect himself from the outside world. Mark knew better than to get his attention by touching him, so he quietly prompted, "Roger?"

Roger's eyes shot open at Mark's voice, and the hope in them was crushing. He expected Mark to be on his side. He was, of course, but that was exactly why he couldn't do what Roger wanted and "save" him from the hospital.

"Mark," Roger croaked. It was obvious he wanted to say more, but it took him a long moment to find either the words or the strength to say them. "Thank God. Please get me out of here, Marky. Take me home." Another pause, and he said the first thing Mark was certain was sincere, his voice breaking a little as he did. "I'm sorry, Mark."

The apology aside, Mark wasn't sure if Roger was really that vulnerable or if he was being manipulated, but thinking about it hurt and he already knew what he had to do. "Roger, calm down," he said, and though he managed a calming tone, he didn't reinforce it with any touch. "Look, I promise you you can leave in the morning. I'll stay with you, even. But you've had a rougher night than you know."

"Don't you fucking dare try to tell me what I know and don't, Mark," Roger snapped. "What the fuck would you know about any of this?! Have you ever been through it? Was it you who found April dead in a welter of her out fucking gore? Are you…" Roger choked on it, but then managed to spit it out with all of his previous venom. "Are you the one dying?" Mark stared at him, stunned to silence and afraid he'd cry if he tried to talk. Roger spat, "I thought not."

He shook his head and walked out of the room, murmuring to the nurse on his way out the door, "Do what you have to."

But as soon as he left the room, his stomach lurched almost audibly, and he clapped a hand over his mouth and ran in the direction a nearby sign indicated the bathrooms were. He barely made it, dropping heavily to his knees in front of the toilet and heaving. Like Roger earlier, Mark had very little to expel, and so he was subjected to about ten minutes of dry heaving punctuated by short, burning bursts of bile. His head got excruciatingly painful, and he felt dizzy even on his knees on the ground. Eventually he started crying between his stomach's contractions, making it even harder to breathe, but he wasn't sure whether it was due to physical or emotional trauma.

When he finally stopped throwing up, he stayed on the floor a long time, so disoriented he was convinced he couldn't walk. It never really got better, but Mark knew he had to move. He didn't know where he was going to go – he couldn't face Roger, not right now, but neither could he bring himself to leave him entirely, not here. Returning to the loft for his pain medication sounded like a good idea in theory, but in practice, he had no money for a cab and he knew he didn't have the strength to walk. He knew he had to make it somewhere, though, and he was so exhausted that even the chair in Roger's room sounded like a trek.

In spite of his reluctance to talk to his friend, going back really seemed like his only option, at least until he regained some strength. Resolved, Mark made it to his feet and thought for a second he might be okay. Then, as he opened the door, his body caught up with him and he felt his heart beat thickly a few times as his vision began to fill with tiny black dots. Mark didn't even realize what had happened to him before he hit the ground.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Sorry about this one taking so long. I've been on break, and strangely, that ends in me writing far less than usual…

---

Mark awoke to the last thing in the world he'd expected: the loft and worried green eyes locked on him. Roger jumped slightly when Mark met his gaze, looking at him as if he'd just risen from the dead.

Mark said the only thing he could think to. "What happened?" he croaked in a voice made weak from both disuse and his physical state. He found himself hoping vainly that the events he remembered had been nothing more than a dream, even though he knew to the contrary in his gut.

Not only did Roger not answer, but Mark had barely finished asking his question before he was seized in a bone crushing hug. "Thank God," Roger breathed, and Mark couldn't help but feel he'd heard Roger utter those particular words in that particular profoundly relieved tone far too frequently of late. "I knew you were just sleeping, and they told me to let you, and Collins told me to let you, but you've been out twelve hours, and…"

"What?" Mark blurted, interrupting the flow of words tumbling frantically from his friend's mouth. "Twelve hours?"

"Yeah," another familiar voice chimed in, and Mark finally noticed Collins perched on a stepstool some distance away, "you were one hurting little man for awhile. Your own fault, too."

Roger grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him back far enough to meet his eyes earnestly. "You've gotta take care of yourself, Mark. They said it didn't look like you'd had enough to eat in a day for weeks," Roger told him, and even though his situation was much the same, he looked scared at the prospect. Mark couldn't bring himself to take the concern seriously; it was just how Roger was: hot then cold, caring one moment then seeming almost unaware of his existence the next. "You weren't sleeping. God, then something like this has to go happen before I even notice." Mark had no way to know it, but Roger went on berating himself long after he'd finished speaking. Would've been better if you'd never found me, he thought disgustedly, even though he secretly knew he was glad for it.

"But… how did I get back here? When did Collins come?"

Collins chuckled. "Well, he found out what happened when you passed out – saw them take you by. Then he laid there for another hour yelling at doctors and nurses 'cause he was too fucking wasted to be any use," Collins paused there, meeting Roger's hurt eyes unflinchingly. Collins did not shy away from telling others when they'd really fucked up. "Then he checked himself out into my supervision and went to find you. When they got you, they checked you out, then stuck you with an IV to get you rehydrated and give you some morphine – which is why I'm guessing you don't remember, because you were conscious for a bit before they got you doped up, and on the way home in the cab – but they really only admitted you because Roger was your primary contact, and obviously they couldn't give you to him. Then they… found out they could. Very loudly. So he and I brought you back here."

Mark frowned, sensing there was a lot more to the story than Collins would tell him in front of Roger. "But why were you even at the hospital?"

"Got here about an hour after you guys left. Broke in through the fire escape, saw Roger's room and assumed the worst," Collins met Roger's eyes pointedly again at, and Roger only managed to hold his gaze for a fraction of a second before his eyes flicked away of their own volition. "Called the hospital closest to here and asked them to find me a Roger Davis. They did. Didn't expect to find you laid up too, though."

"Oh, God," Mark groaned, holding his head as envisioned the hell Roger had likely put the hospital staff through. "Roger…"

"What? They were…" Roger stopped when he saw the looks Mark and Collins were giving him. Mark's said he was glad he cared, but that he wasn't going to believe what Roger told him, and Collins seemed amused but wholly unconvinced. Of course, Collins had been there. Collins had seen all of it.

Collins had better keep his fucking mouth shut.

---

Roger writhed uncomfortably in the bed, cursing himself for his intoxication. He was just sober enough that he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had to find Mark and take him home, but just far gone enough to be unable to do anything about it.

A nurse walked through the door, and he lashed out as much as he dared to. "What the fuck do you want?" he demanded.

She was an older woman, and a veteran of the ER besides. She was not impressed by Roger's hostility in the least. "You know," she began gruffly, "if you play nice, we do too."

Roger very pointedly avoided looking at her. As a consequence of this, he didn't see her coming. He didn't even know she was anywhere near him until he registered the stab of another needle in his bicep, and his perceptions were slow enough that she was far away before he could react. He jerked and muttered several choice words, but he'd grown increasingly aware of his impotence, and knew that any sign he'd like to do someone violence (though he secretly longed to) would only hurt his case when the time came that he was physically able to help Mark.

"You'll thank me later," the nurse explained curtly, not even bothering to tell him what poison she'd injected him with. She'd have to tell him if he asked, of course, but that too would be compliance with the health system, something Roger couldn't countenance. "You friends with a Tom Collins, kid?"

He nodded sullenly, regretting what he perceived to be his submission. "Why?"

The nurse grinned, almost but not quite maliciously. "Congratulations, Mr. Davis. You've just been released into his care. He heard the fit you were throwing over your friend earlier and went and talked to people until he got someone convinced he could handle you."

"Oh, I can handle him," Collins said with bravado, suddenly appearing at the door. He smiled broadly at the woman, but his eyes narrowed when he looked at Roger and he added pointedly, "With the back of my hand, if it comes to it."

Roger wanted to snipe back, but didn't dare. Collins only made comments like that in earnest, and he could see where Collins might feel the need to issue such a warning to keep him in check.

He was released without ceremony. He got his clothes from under the bed, dressed, then left the room with Collins.

As soon as he was in the hall, Collins seized him by the shoulder and said sternly, "Don't think we'll let you give up because of this, Roger. And don't act stupid, either. You want what's best for Mark and you think it's for him to come home, you let me do the talking. I've seen him already; he's fine. Just a bad migraine." Roger nodded. He could see it.

Mark had laid on the couch for three days once, alternately clutching his head, throwing up, and crying silently – or not so silently, when someone offered genuine sympathy. Out of nowhere, Roger remembered April sitting him up gently, rubbing his back while he retched then pulling him into her arms and massaging the tips of her fingers into the back of his neck, one of the few things that seemed to bring him any relief. Roger remembered the contented, peaceful looks they'd been wearing as they'd eventually drifted off holding one another – Mark's first real sleep in two days, and even though his face was lined with his pain he looked relaxed – and how it had affected him when he'd seen it. He hadn't been jealous, on the contrary, the sight had filled his heart to bursting with love – for April and her compassion, he told himself at the time, even though now he was willing to admit that Mark had been part of it – and with love came sweet, simple inspiration. Mark and April had slept while Roger worked on a song long into the night. He was tired, but he'd come to learn that feelings like those were not to be wasted – they were his purest, least destructive, and unfortunately rarest muse.

God, April had been so much better than him, even at her lowest, even as a dyed-in-the-wool junkie. April took care of Mark like Roger knew he should. April took care of Roger like he didn't even fucking deserve. April should have been the one of them still alive.

"Mark's run himself down lately," Collins commented matter of factly. He'd been letting Roger have his moment of thought, but it almost seemed as if he'd been able to sense the exact moment those thoughts started getting just a little too intense.

Roger averted his eyes, the unspoken second half of Collins' sentence lingering in the air. Run himself down taking care of you, Collins was reminding him.

"Now look, I'm gonna leave you in Mark's room and go make some arrangements," Collins told him when they reached the ward they'd put Mark in. "You're gonna stay there. You're not gonna talk to anyone but Mark, and you're gonna watch what you say to him, too. I know the shit you pull in these places, Roger, and I'm not putting up with it. Neither will they, you're not a patient anymore."

Mark was in a room with three partitions, in the bed closest to the door. The other curtains were closed. His clothes were folded on a table in the corner of the room, his glasses and shoes on top of them. Roger saw the path the tube hanging from the IV pole traced down into Mark's vein, and his hands twitched with the urge to remove it. Roger knew logically that Mark wasn't in any danger, that the doctors and nurses had only been doing their best to help both he and Mark recover, but in his experience, healthcare had become synonymous with pain.

He'd avoided really looking at Mark thus far, but he'd run out of other things to distract himself with. Mark was breathing shallowly in his sleep, and he was so pale Roger could see the veins in his eyelids. He was getting his evidently much-needed rest, at least.

Roger sat silently beside the bed, trying not to think. He knew what would happen if he did. But because he could no longer even touch his guitar, about the only way he knew to stop thinking was heroin, which wasn't a good option at the moment or even available, and so he eventually did start thinking. At first it was only slight guilt, the sort he could make up for by taking Mark's hand and whispering that they'd both take care of each other from now on. But he kept thinking, and eventually one of the thoughts was, 'Yeah, right, you can't even take care of yourself and you know you don't mean it,' and it was enough to break the dam.

Roger breathed out with a hiss, his jaw clenched as he tried to fight the tears. It didn't work, and he ended up thinking out loud through them. "Oh God," he began in a ragged whimper, not really meaning to keep speaking, "I didn't mean any of that earlier. I'm really sorry, Mark. About everything. I… I don't know what I can do about it, but… At least I know now," he offered timidly, as though Mark could hear him and as if he'd be outwardly angry if he did. "Because I do, you know. Took a hell of a lot more than it should have, but I know. I can't promise I'll take care of you," he continued remorsefully, even though he knew in the back of his mind that the revelation he'd really been addressing had come before even he'd been hospitalized, let alone Mark, "because I don't think I could really mean it. I'll promise you that someday, though, and you won't have to worry any more then, not as long as I can stick around. I could maybe go away… Get better and come back when I can," he offered childishly. Mark was, predictably, silent. Roger sighed. "But you wouldn't have that, would you? Will it help if I promise this was the last time? Because it will be. If I have to feel like this every time I use, it's really not worth it. I'm supposed to do that so I don't have to feel like this. So, there: I promise I'm done with the heroin. Even before I never promised, you know. I've never been able to make promises I don't think I'll keep.

"And it's not just that, either. I know I've been confusing you lately, I'd have to be blind not to. I was trying to fix it, there on the couch. Made it worse, but I was trying. I just… I was so sure, until then, then all of a sudden you just went cold. Like we weren't even friends anymore, let alone… let alone what was there yesterday. I know you felt it too, though. You can't keep things out of your eyes; besides, it was you who kissed me, the second time. Maybe you're just smart enough to know that even if we both feel the same… yeah, how would that work? Fuck, there has to be some kind of give and take, and I don't even know if I know how to do the giving part any more. But I could try," he said, steadfastly ignoring the voice in the back of his mind that was maliciously reminding him what had happened the last time he'd said he'd try. "I could learn; I'd have a good teacher. I'd have motivation, too.

"Before it was just because I knew I was too scared to off myself – I tried a couple times before I found that out – and I knew that if I had to stay alive, you and Collins wouldn't put up with the drugs much longer. But I was… lying there tonight. After… after I'd just shot up. I had a few seconds where I could still think clear and do stuff. I fit a lot into those few seconds. Figured out I wanted to live. Figured out why, too, and it's mostly you. Sure, Collins and Maureen came up when I started making a list of things in my head later, but that moment of truth where I had to find one good reason to call for help? All I could think was that I couldn't let you down like that, that I couldn't leave you, that I didn't even want to. That I… loved you. But I don't know what that means, not when I'm so fucked up, not when I still love April. When you still love April. She's barely cold in her fucking grave. But I think… I think if April was going to be a problem, I'd have known. I'd have decided differently and gone away to be with her. I don't care if you feel the same, it's okay if you don't. But you stuck around," he muttered optimistically, more to himself than Mark for a change. "That means something, doesn't it?"

Roger paused and sighed heavily, remembering, "Well, it might have, but after tonight… Please don't hate me. That's all I want, is for you to be able to have me around, and I'll make it up to you. I'll have to start by fixing me, but knowing you, that'll be good enough. Even if it is, I'll make things really even, whether you think I need to or not. I like when you're happy. I never realized it until you weren't any more. If I can get you to smile again and mean it, the rest will all be worth it." The words stirred the barest hint of inspiration within him, but when he recognized the feeling for what it was it was almost physically painful. He couldn't create when he didn't even deserve to live.

His brain reminded him that once upon a time he'd loved to see April smile, too, but that he'd been so bad at showing it that she'd felt so alone she'd slit her wrists. It wasn't the virus, he thought, no. If he'd only loved her enough, she'd have had the strength to face it.

He didn't think any further until Collins said softly from the door, "Sounds like you boys need to have a talk."

For a split second, Roger saw red. Then he realized that Collins had needed to be here as much as he had, and he couldn't help overhearing. He couldn't have interrupted him, because Roger was wholly aware how distressed he must have seemed and how important it had been for him to say what he had. "Yeah," he choked out finally, starting to cry again. His voice lowered to a whisper, and he repeated, "Yeah, we do."

He cried in Collins' arms for the next ten minutes, missing Mark's.

It wasn't that Roger didn't want Mark to know the things he'd confessed while he was asleep – to the contrary, he planned on telling him. But he wanted to do it his own way, on his own time. It would be too easy for Mark to dismiss his sincerity, if it came from someone else. Even then, though, there was the little voice telling him he only wanted Collins to keep quiet so he never had to face Mark knowing the truth.

He wanted to kill that voice. His own personal little demon, borne of scientific withdrawals and emotional turmoil. At first, when everything had gone wrong, there had only been tearing regret. No, that was wrong. Regret and terror. Not pleasant, but tolerable with heroin and the knowledge of his rent-free home, and Mark's steady, unwavering support. Collins being on his side and always wanting what was really best for him factored in too, but what was really, truly best for him wasn't something he wanted any part of. Then the job offer had come in the mail. Roger hadn't thought anything of it when he saw the envelope. There was nothing unusual about it. Collins would see it, say there was no way in hell he was ever going where ever the offer was from, and that would be the end of it.

Not this time, though. This time… God. Mark and Collins hadn't even told him; he hadn't known until three days before he left. That was when he'd overheard their conversation and frozen in the hall outside Mark's bedroom door, unable to see anything more than Collins' back while remaining undetectable. It didn't matter, because once he heard what Mark said, he'd planted himself firmly in front of the door.

"Collins, I… I know you've gotta go, you have my blessing. I just… I'm not sure I can do it."

Roger froze in midstep when he heard it, not because of what Mark said, but because of how he said it. There was a raw, honest quality to his voice of a sort Roger had never heard before, not once in five years. The implications of the words hit him a few seconds later, and Collins had begun answering Mark, "I know it's hard, Mark. And God knows we all love Roger, but you're only one person. You can only do what you can. No one will judge if you have to cut him loose." Roger's blood ran cold, and it was enough to dampen his rage, keeping him silent in the hall outside the door. "No one's saying you can't be there for him once he's hit rock bottom, once he's had some sense knocked into him. But he's not gonna change, Mark, not 'til he goes through some life-altering shit."

"I don't know… I mean, don't you think he already has? He's not stupid. He knows they dug their graves with needles."

"Not true, Mark. Roger still has the rest of his life ahead of him," Collins insisted mildly. Roger couldn't see him from the hall, but he could visualize Mark in his head, staring at his shoes, embarrassed to have been caught referring to what Collins called his "pet virus" as a death sentence. "He really does. I just hope he's smart enough not to waste it. And April… was sad. April was worse than sad. If someone had been able to tell; if she'd had someone to talk to… well, who can say? But even after all the tragedy, Roger's living essentially the same way he always did. He doesn't have April or the band any more, yeah, but we've all supported him a hundred percent. And look what he's done with it, Mark. It's not helping him any more, it's just enabling him. Look at him real good next time he's around. He can't weigh any more than you, there's places where the track marks have just turned into putrefying skin, it's been God knows how long since I saw any sign of real life – real awareness – in his eyes. He keeps this up, he's gonna die, and a lot faster than HIV could ever do the job."

"I can't make him do it, Collins," Mark whispered in a small voice. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"If it's too much, it's too much," Collins replied gently. Roger could just barely see Mark now, stepping forward with a lost look on his face to let Collins hug him. Behind Mark's eyes, there was only a numbness that rivalled the one Roger saw in the mirror. "Don't keep this up, Mark. He might not thank you for letting him go, but at least he'll have a chance if you do. I do not want you to have to watch him killing himself for months on end."

"All you're telling me is that I get to pick how I watch him die," Mark pointed out, a little incredulously. He continued uncertainly, "I mean, maybe if he's happier like this…"

"Don't you fucking dare finish that sentence, Cohen," Collins warned him, and despite how he phrased it his voice was still gentle. "Mark, I know people who've been living with HIV more than a decade who are no less healthy than the day they were diagnosed. Even if ten years was the cap, if they definitively said that he'd be gone after that… He's twenty-three, Mark, that's almost half as long as he's been alive. He gets clean and happy, he will thank you for that every day for the rest of his life. Roger being Roger, he might never do it out loud, but he will. Besides, life isn't worth less just because it might get cut short. You could get hit by a bus tomorrow. You still get up every morning."

"I don't think I can do it, Col," Mark whispered, and this time the tears in his voice were evident. "Any of it. You saw what happened to April when she tried. That's how he'll be, only worse, because we're gonna be… we're gonna be alone. But you are right about one thing. I can't watch him keep wasting away, either. I just… don't know what to do."

That was the last of their conversation Roger heard. He turned on his heel, went straight to his room, and immediately began tossing what few worldly possessions he had that he thought were worth keeping into a beat-up canvas backpack. His guitar wasn't amongst them, something he agonized over for a few minutes before deciding that it didn't really matter, anyway, it was just a memento of the life he didn't have any more. They didn't want him? Fine. He didn't need them anyway. But no, it was worse than that. Mark had said that he just didn't think he could handle Roger, like he was some fucking kid or something. Well, fuck him, Roger would be fine on his own.

It never occurred to him that he was doing exactly what Collins had hoped would happen. Roger didn't remember many specifics about what happened when he spitefully announced his impending departure, telling them they wouldn't have to worry about him any more. He knew that Collins told him to do what he needed to do, and that Mark had asked where he was going to stay. He never answered either of them, just stalked out the door and straight to The Man. Reality didn't dawn until three that morning, when the drug wore off and he felt the cold and realized he had nowhere to go. Still, he made it that first night and a few others, long enough to miss Collins leaving, before crawling back to Mark, already an emotional wreck from his inability to buy another hit, and sobbing that he'd really try now if Mark would just have him back. Mark plainly hadn't believed him, just pulled his shivering friend up into his arms and taken him to his bed. Roger's room had gone untouched, as though Mark had known all along he'd come back. Mark had stroked his forehead and said they'd talk in the morning, speaking over Roger's protests, and left the room.

Roger didn't sleep that night. Unsurprising, given that the withdrawal had set in and grew progressively worse as the night went on, but the withdrawal wasn't really to blame. He was thinking a mile a minute, and no matter how he rationalized, he continued coming to the same realization: he had to make a choice between the needle and his life. Not just his life, either, but everything in it and what would be left behind. How disappointed Collins would be, in the world for helping drive him to it and in him for doing it. How Benny would scoff that he'd been right all along, how Maureen would cry and miss him without ever really understanding why he was gone. How completely and utterly alone Mark would be. But wasn't that going to happen eventually anyway? What was the point in delaying it? What was the point in delaying it at all?

That was the thought that lead to him standing over the bathroom sink in the dark with a razor biting into his wrist, not breaking skin but still hurting, threatening to tear through his flesh like wet tissue paper. His hands were trembling as he scored it up his forearm, passing over old scars and track marks and leaving white scratches in its wake. Well, that was… something. The marks weren't too hard to take, he'd just need to apply a little more pressure to break skin, and sure, that part might be scary, but then he'd be bleeding out and it wouldn't take too long for him to black out, would it?

For a few minutes, he was completely and utterly convinced to find out. He pressed the razor a little harder and actually felt his skin part underneath it. It was a rush, powerful enough to make him suck in a gasp; it was freedom. It made him press harder, dragging the razor down his arm. Then his fingers grew slick with something and the razor slipped, digging deeply into his three middle fingers before clattering to the ground. Roger hissed and cursed. The pain that he'd been expecting had been something like a balm, but being taken by surprise wasn't pleasurable in the least. He looked down tentatively at the damage he'd done, blood coursing out of his arm and dripping from his fingers to the floor, and felt completely numb for a few seconds before being overtaken by a wave of nausea. He shook uncontrollably in a way he knew wasn't related to withdrawal. He threw up, then mechanically tied a towel around his self inflicted wounds, and cleaned the bathroom of all evidence of his activities before staggering weakly back to bed and laying in it in the same position for the rest of the night, whimpering.

That was that, then, the easy way out wasn't an option. Roger supposed that meant he really did have to kick the habit. Later, Roger will say that he's glad he made the choice and gathered his conviction so naively. If he'd known how hard it would be, he says, the person he was then would never have chosen to do it.

In the time ahead, Roger will want to give up countless times. He will, not a week after that first night he spends shivering and crying, the only one he spends alone, come to an earth-moving revelation about his best friend that almost breaks him but in the end also becomes his strength. He will vomit and cry and say things to people he loves he later feels like the scum of the earth for uttering.

He will ultimately get better, both Roger and Mark remind themselves feverishly, and sometimes, like the night a month later when he relapses from his first serious attempt and overdoses, it's nowhere near enough.

But it has to be. It's all they have.


	5. Chapter 5

Mark let Maureen fawn over him, troubled by his complete lack of emotional response. She was always over-the-top, but usually it just made him smile and think, Well, that's how she is, before moving on to appreciate that she cared for him and loving her for it. Today, her bloviation was simply… annoying. He was too exhausted for it. He wanted Roger, who needed him, and Collins, who understood it all infinitely better than Maureen ever would. It wasn't her fault; she just didn't really get it.

She was kissing his face and head feverishly in between insisting that he had to take better care of himself whether it hampered his being able to care for Roger or not, and saying that she could move back in if she needed him, because she loved him and she was damn sure she could handle Roger, by force if necessary. She had no idea, and truthfully, he was happier able to protect her. He wasn't convinced she could deal with the side of Roger he'd seen recently. Roger as Maureen knew him, even at his worst, was a far cry from how he was now. He'd clung to his independence for a long time, and now he didn't even have that.

Besides: all this, a week after a mutual friend had mentioned seeing Maureen being rather more than friendly with another man at a bar. Mark was tired and stressed and worried, and when Maureen began berating Roger for the millionth time, it was too much. From any logical person's perspective, she was probably right, but Mark had heard too many people speak badly of his best friend to care.

"Look, Maureen – all that might be true," Mark admitted tiredly. "But he nearly died last night, all right? That's bad enough without his friends bad-mouthing him."

Maureen opened her mouth, gaping, then closed it in a tight, fluid motion. She loosed a harsh laugh. "Unbelievable," she said. "All this, Mark, and you won't even hear that he did wrong?"

"I know what he did," Mark said tiredly. "And I'm always hearing about what he's done. It doesn't help me or him to keep complaining about it, you know."

Maureen shook her head, something like pity shining in her eyes. "Oh, Mark," she sighed. "Pookie, please. I know you want what's best for him, but he's just using you now."

Maureen was the only person on the planet who could get away with saying that, and even then Mark was less than pleasant. "I'm not talking about it any more, Maureen," he said sternly, shaking his head. "I'm not fighting with you over this. The subject's closed."

Maureen huffed. "Christ," she growled, turning on her heel and heading for the door. "Mark, he's going to be the fucking death of you."

Mark loved her – loves her, even years later – but somehow, he knew those words were the beginning of the end.

The next day, Roger was sick again. It wasn't as if they hadn't both known it was coming, but both Mark and Collins were taken aback by its intensity. This time, not even the medicine seemed to help much. It made him a little less antsy and lessened his shivering a little, but he was clearly in agony. He scratched ceaselessly, driven half mad by constant itchiness that encompassed his entire body, tearing up his skin. The worst damage was to the sores on his arms. No matter how many times Mark knelt before him and took his wrists in his hands, softly explaining that he really had to stop, Roger would start again.

Mark kept trying, though, and eventually Roger snapped. "I fucking can't, all right?!" he shouted. "I…" his voice caught in his throat and he stared at his damaged arms before managing to sob, "My fucking _insides_ are itchy."

Something about it struck him, and Mark had to struggle to keep his voice level when he whispered, "Okay. I'm sorry."

He had to leave the room, going to his own and collapsing bonelessly to the bed. He wanted to take to the streets, find Roger's dealer, and lay the powder at his feet. He didn't want Roger stuck a junkie – didn't want Roger dying from it, that was the main thing – but he wasn't sure how much more he could watch him hurt without breaking.

He laid there for a few minutes, drawing fast, shaky breaths, before there was a light tap on the door. "Mark?" Collins' voice queried gently.

"I have to do this," he mumbled flatly in reply, voice sounding almost mechanical with grim determination. "If he can go through that, I can deal with this."

Collins sat down beside him on the bed. "Mark, I'm not gonna deny that to an extent, you've gotta be strong for him. But this… this isn't right. I know it's not Roger's fault," he said, and Mark felt relieved. He needed someone to understand how hard this was without blaming it on Roger. "But that doesn't mean you can keep this up. This doesn't help him either, you know. He might be sick, but he's not stupid. He knows you're hurting, Mark, and it's only going to upset him more that you won't talk to him about it."

"You really think he can deal with my shit right now?" Mark croaked, his voice muffled by the pillow his face was buried in.

"Not only that, but I think it'll help him," Collins replied firmly. "He's… look, it's not my place to say, but Mark, it's hell on him to think that this is his fault and you won't even tell him because you're afraid he can't cope with it. Roger cares about you; about all of us, really, he's just had a fucked-up way of showing it lately. Besides, he's damned proud. You should let him be there for you, even if it's only in little ways he can manage. You'll be surprised how much better you'll both feel because of it." Collins paused. "Even if you can't believe that, you know he needs to know he's not the only one scared."

Mark sat up, blinking. "You make a damned good case," he admitted reluctantly.

Collins laughed, his whole frame shaking once. "Well, you know, logic tends to. But right now, I think we'd all like to see you take a nap. You might not think so, but I've seen you in better health."

"I don't…"

"You can't do anything for him that I can't, Mark," Collins insisted, even though he knew it was a lie. There was nothing Mark could do that would occur to him until the boys had had a good long talk, something Collins was about to facilitate. How much Roger would tell him, Collins didn't know, and he had considered that adding a whole new set of issues to their problems might not be a good thing, but ultimately, he was more afraid of what would happen if they didn't say some of the things they were thinking.

Mark put up a cursory struggle, but ultimately gave up and curled up underneath his blankets with a few short, dry coughs. Collins went back out to Roger. He wasn't scratching as frantically and he was restricting it to undamaged skin, and he was staring blankly ahead, so lost in his thoughts one could almost mistake his spaciness for calm.

"Roger," Collins prompted quietly, trying to startle him out of his daze. Roger didn't move, he barely reacted at all, but his eyes flicked towards Collins. It was all the reaction he was going to get.

"Look, Roger, I'm not trying to push, but I think when Mark gets up I'm going to go out. I'd like you to talk to him. You don't have to tell him everything, but just explain some of what you told him in the hospital."

"Collins…" Roger protested quietly.

"Look, I know telling him the big stuff might be hard, and I'm not saying you have to. But you know you have to tell him some of it, Roger, or it's just gonna eat you up inside. And if you won't do it for you, then look: a lot of what you said will help him a lot. He might not even let you apologize, but it'll still do him some good to hear it."

"Why are you doing this now?" Roger asked in a low, tired voice. "Collins, I know. It has to be said, but I just, I don't think I can now."

"You're talking to me," Collins countered. "Talking's all it takes."

"Physically, sure," Roger conceded. He grimaced and scratched at his torso, leaving a long bloody line on his ribs. He pulled his blanket tighter around him and continued, "But the rest of it… I don't have it in me."

"Yeah, but that's what special with you two," Collins pointed out. "You don't have to have it in you. You just have to manage to say it, and that'll be enough."

"I'll think about it," Roger said curtly.

"Good enough," Collins conceded. It wasn't, really, but he could sense it was as close as he was going to get.

"Mark! I'm going out for food!" Collins called on his way out the door. Mark emerged hesitantly from his room and went to the living room, sitting on the opposite end of the couch from Roger.

"How you feeling?" he asked carefully.

"Like shit," Roger replied matter-of-factly, picking at a scab on his arm. Instinctively, Mark reached out to stop him, sliding his hand between Roger's fingernails and forearm. Then he remembered Roger's earlier reaction to his attempts to make him stop, and he flinched even though Roger hadn't moved.

Roger looked hurt. "God, are you really that afraid of me, Mark?"

Mark shook his head. "No, I…" he began, but his words sounded hollow even to him. He had no real fear of Roger, but he couldn't keep from being jumpy around him. He wasn't sure if the protection he sought was for his mind or his body. "I'm really not, I just thought maybe… You're not always gonna be yourself with all this going on, and that's okay, but I…"

"You still gonna believe me if I tell you something?" Roger asked, tone carefully neutral. He started scratching idly at his stomach, but then his fingers sped almost of his own volition, and he kept scratching even though it hurt. He let out a growl of frustration and Mark sidled up to him hesitantly, stopping him with a hand over his own and rubbing the irritated skin roughly with his fingertips. It did less damage and it helped a little, but it wasn't as if scratching had done much for the itch in the first place. Still, they were falling back into their old routine, comfort and touches that would be far too intimate to go unremarked in any other circumstance.

"Depends what you say," Mark said matter-of-factly, his fingers stilling and spreading out over Roger's torso. He was too _fucking itchy_ to really focus on it, but Roger felt little sparks surge and die in his pelvis. "Roger, it's… it's okay, you know. It's not you, it's what the drug does. As long as you keep at it, we'll stay on your side."

"I made the choice, Mark," Roger replied in a clipped tone. "It's… nice to know, but don't fucking lie to me because you think I can't handle the truth."

"I'm not, Roger," Mark protested, looking hurt. "You're just… really hard on yourself sometimes."

"Which is about what I deserve," Roger said calmly. "I fucked up, Mark, and you know it. Stop pretending."

"I…" Mark stopped. He sighed, "Okay. So maybe you did."

"I did," Roger asserted. "And I'm really sorry. I… It won't happen again."

"It's all right," Mark said, but it was plain he'd done it on reflex. "Don't worry."

"Mark," Roger said softly, his tone demanding that Mark look at him. "Stop. Think about it. Then you can say it, if you're gonna mean it."

Mark opened his mouth, closed it, and nodded mutely. His fingers played idly against Roger's skin as he thought. Then he glanced back up, locking his eyes on Roger's. "It's okay," he repeated softly. "It's worth it."

It isn't, of course, not at all, but Roger could tell Mark meant it, and that was what was important. "I'm done, you know," Roger said, as casually as he'd discuss the weather. "That was it, Mark. It's just not worth it anymore. There's… there's enough here for me that I can't do it anymore. One person would be reason enough to stay, and I've got that and more. It doesn't always feel like much, sure, but… I can't let you guys down." He's not sure he means it, because sometimes – most of the time – it still feels like he has nothing, even though he knows better.

Mark stared at him with wide eyes. After a long moment, he asked hesitantly, "You mean all that?"

Roger didn't skip a beat. "Yeah," he said softly, "yeah I do. There's Collins, there's Maureen, even April… she'd kick my ass if I showed up up there too soon, and this is definitely too soon. Benny might've turned into an asshole, but even he… hasn't written me off. And you… God, Mark, I… I should've said it a long time ago, it shouldn't have taken this much to make me realize it – Jesus, April as good as told me, and it's not like she had a problem with it…" He was rambling now, not sure he could really say the words. He wasn't even sure he should. It wasn't like there was any way it could really work out. But eventually, he said it anyway. "I… love you, Mark," he said lamely, sighing.

Mark's arms wrapped around him and squeezed. "Love you too, Rog," he replied without a hint of hesitation. A hollow feeling set in in the pit of Roger's stomach. Mark had replied so easily that it was obvious he'd taken the words the wrong way.

"No, Mark," he protested, "that's not… how I meant it. I guess what I meant must be… That I'm in love with you." The moment the words left his mouth, Mark went even paler than normal, but he let Roger finish, "I know that sounds weird, I should at least know, but this is different from anything before now, Mark. I don't love you like I used to – like you love me," he conceded a little sadly, "but this… Doesn't exactly feel like April, either. I know I love you, and I know it's not… platonic. But… I don't know what that means or even really what it is, and I'm sorry I'm laying this on you, especially right now, I just…"

"Roger," Mark interrupted, a little harshly. Then, with all the conviction he'd had before, he repeated a third time, "It's okay," before leaning up and giving him a brief, chaste kiss. Roger's eyes nearly bugged out of his head, and his muscles tensed, triggering another bout of back spasms.

"Ahh, _fuck_," he cursed with conviction, arching and writhing, trying everything he could to release the caught muscle. It only made it worse. It wouldn't stop, and it hurt like a bitch, and he wanted to be trying to figure out Mark right now but he was too busy trying to breathe through the agony.

"Just stay still however hurts the least," Mark told him calmly, grabbing his hand and squeezing it reassuringly. Roger couldn't keep from tightening his grip, a breath hissing out from between his teeth, but he obliged. Without him thrashing around, Mark could place the stressed muscle by its convulsions, and he pressed against it experimentally. When Roger didn't seem to be put in any more pain by the pressure, Mark pushed harder, working his fingertips against the rigid, quivering muscles. All at once, his back unclenched, and Roger gasped with relief, his head falling forward to rest against Mark's shoulder.

"God," he panted, relieved but in a cold sweat. Mark squeezed his hand again, almost tentatively.

"Better?" he queried, a little shyly.

Still breathing heavily and not looking up, Roger agreed, "Yeah. But Mark…"

"Shh," Mark breathed, shaking his head. "Roger, we can't do this now. You know we can't. It's… it's not practical. It's not a no, it's not me letting you down gently, it's just… Not now. Not with you so sick from this, not when… Maureen and I haven't been as close lately, but I can't do what she did to me; I have to do it right." Somewhere beneath what he said, Mark knew it was also because he was afraid of losing Maureen's support. It may not have been that helpful, but she tried, and even if he was beginning to realize it couldn't work, he still loved her just as wholly and honestly as he did Roger. "I love you; I'm just as confused about how as you are, but I'll be here for you. I'll treat you like you're supposed to treat people you love. We're already an "us," Roger, I just don't think I can handle how changing right now. For now… that has to be enough, okay?"

Roger laughed, but it sounded a bitter. "Well I'm not in a position to argue, am I?"

"Roger," Mark protested softly, touching his cheek. "Don't be like that. It's still a yes; it's just going to take time. Maureen, she… She's not going to work, but I can't just stop loving her. I can't… lose her right now. I just, I can't."

"How much help can she fucking _be,_ Mark?" Roger spat. "You're here going through all this, and she's out fucking half the city! Mark, for Christ's sakes, it took her more than a day to see you after you'd been in the fucking hospital! She doesn't work, she hasn't got any performances on the go, so fucking explain that one!"

Mark might not have let Maureen get away with badmouthing Roger, but he wasn't about to let the reverse happen, either. The obvious response was to say that Roger had failed him as much and possibly more than Maureen ever had, but Mark didn't have it in him to say it, not when he knew just how much it would hurt. Instead, he said tersely, "Roger, please. You have to try and understand."

"There's nothing to understand, Mark! Why do you let her do this?!"

"I love her," Mark said shortly. "Please stop. Roger, she's not perfect, but she tries. You know she's called at least once a day to check up on us since you started, she always makes sure to talk to both of us, she got you vitamins and cigarettes and every thing else she thought might help you do this… She paid our heat bill this month, and you know damn well she didn't have the money for it. Don't act like she never gives back, Roger."

Roger mumbled something, eyes downcast.

"What was that?" Mark prompted.

Roger looked up uncertainly, then drew a deep breath and said clearly, "I said she doesn't love you, Mark. Not like you love her. She cares, I know that, but if she really wanted to be with you she wouldn't do all that shit."

That was the last straw. Mark knew he was right, and that was what hurt the most. He breathed deep to keep from screaming, then grit out, "I know. Thanks for that." He turned on his heel and walked back towards his bedroom.

Roger didn't answer him. He felt miserable, and the turmoil had set off another case of psychological cravings. The pain was bad enough without aching for a hit. He'd fucked up and he knew it – he was right, but he'd been cruel, and more than a little hypocritical. Maureen cheated, sure, but she did take care of Mark (of Roger too, reluctant though he was to admit it), better than Roger did, if nothing else.

God, he really wanted… no. Better not to go there. Just because he hadn't been able to be completely honest with Mark was no excuse to go back on promises he'd made.

Despite Collins' concerns that smoking would only make the physical part of withdrawal worse, Roger got up, looking for a cigarette. If he couldn't appease one craving, he might as well satisfy another.

Mark was probably right, Roger figured, even though he couldn't imagine how. But what would happen, he wondered, when trusting Mark without really believing him wasn't enough?


	6. Chapter 6

Mark pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, sniffling. He wanted to be angry. Maybe Roger had been right, but like hell was it his place to say any of it. Maureen far from perfect, but so was he. So was Mark, for that matter. He might be there for them now, but would Maureen really be so distant if Mark had paid her enough attention? Would Roger really be sick and addicted if Mark had cared enough to notice when his eyes had been foggy more often than they'd been clear, when his skin began to look tightly stretched over his bones? What about April? April, when she'd begged him to help her, saying she knew he couldn't handle Roger but could he please help her so she could try? She'd been doing well, too – the withdrawal episodes had all but gone away, and April was herself again, smiling and greeting him in the morning with pancakes and a kiss on the cheek. Then she'd gone to the doctor. Nothing important, or at least nothing urgent. Just a full physical, mostly to see what toll her addiction had taken on her.

Then she'd gotten the blood test results, and that… That was history. Was there anything Mark could have done? April had always told him that even though it was Roger she loved romantically, Mark was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Mark had loved April, but it was in the same way she'd loved him: friendship, maybe even filial affection.

Did Roger hate him at all for that? That even though it was him April wanted, it had been Mark she'd needed? Roger loved April, but they hadn't been close near the end, when April would cry and scream and beg him to stop using, and Mark, more sedately, made the same plea. Didn't matter that they'd grown apart, April's death had ripped Roger's world apart.

It had hurt Mark just as deeply, he just hadn't had the time to dwell on it. How couldn't it? Everything he was going through with Roger now, everything that was making them so close and intimate… he'd gone through it all with April, and she'd been a good deal more pleasant about it. There were times she'd screamed at him and thrown things, but it was never anything more dangerous than a sneaker and it was always followed by her collapsing into his arms and sobbing out apologies.

It had been a cruel twist of fate. She'd suffered for months, she'd gotten better, she was doing everything she could to help Roger… then the diagnosis, and it had just been too much for her. All that effort, lost. But not really lost, Mark insisted to himself. Even if he'd known, he'd have helped her all the same. April had died free, at least. She'd beaten it. If she could do it, so could Roger.

April was sad, Collins had said, April was worse than sad. April had been utterly fucking tragic. Why did it have to be her? Mark wondered, and immediately felt sick with himself. He couldn't think like that and he didn't want to. April might have "deserved" life more in some subjective, abstract way, but Mark didn't want to think about Roger dying. It was going to happen soon enough – too soon – wondering what could have been was simply morbid.

And as crushing as April's loss had been, the pit in Mark's stomach told him losing Roger would have been a hundred times worse. He loved April, and he loved Roger, but Roger was his best friend and had been for more than half of his admittedly short life.

The phone rang, startling Mark out of his reverie. He let it ring until the answering machine picked up with nothing more than a beep. When April had died, Collins had changed their message. When Collins had left, Mark hadn't bothered changing it, just deleted it, and something so small was bound to be far from Roger's mind.

"Mark, Roger," Benny's voice called from the speaker. Sighing, Mark rose from his bed and made for the answering machine. Roger was still sitting on the couch, staring at it balefully. "I know you're there, man, come on. Just pick up the phone, I just want to know how things are going, and…"

Mark grabbed the phone. "Hi, Benny," he greeted, forcing cheer that even he knew rang hollow.

"Mark," Benny acknowledged hesitantly. "How are things?"

"Exactly how you'd expect," he said wearily. "I…"

"Mark, please. I know things have changed, but… I still care, you know. Even about him. I just… Collins told me, and… I'm worried about you," Benny finished lamely.

"Don't waste that on me," Mark replied flatly. "There's too many people doing that, any more."

"Because they need to," Benny insisted. "You aren't doing it yourself."

"Benny, I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but unless you have something to say that I haven't heard before…"

"Have dinner with me tonight," Benny said out of nowhere, a strange sort of desperation in his tone. "It'll be on me, and Collins can watch him. I know you don't need me checking up on you, but I'd feel better if we talked. We never do any more."

"Whose fault is that?" Mark asked tiredly, voice dripping with biting sarcasm. "Couldn't be the guy who asked me not to talk to his wife on his wedding day because I made her uncomfortable, could it?"

"Maybe so, but… Look, just meet me at the Life at six, okay?"

"Maybe," Mark said reluctantly.

Benny sighed. "That's the best I'm going to get, isn't it?" When Mark was silent, he continued, "Fine. But I'll be waiting. No business, I promise."

"All right," Mark conceded cautiously. "I'll see you, Benny."

He hung up and went back to his room without a second glance at Roger.

* * *

As promised, Benny was waiting at the café when Mark arrived. Benny grabbed him and hugged him before he could say a word, and something fluttered nervously in Mark's stomach. The last thing he'd needed, after coming to the realization that he would eventually have to lose Maureen for a far more uncertain but far more honest relationship with Roger, was any sort of physical contact, particularly from any of his exes. Not that Benny had been especially serious – it had been more experimentation than anything, and when Benny had come from Brown to find Mark happy with Maureen, he hadn't breathed a word of discontent. But they had had something, and with Mark's emotions in their current state of turmoil, it was enough to break him. When Benny finally released him, his throat was locked with a lump and his eyes were shining. Benny looked taken aback for a moment, then shook his head and rested a hand on his shoulder.

"You wanna take a walk before we eat?" he asked gently.

Sniffling back tears, Mark shook his head, managing an almost-steady tone when he said, "No. We can talk over food."

Benny nodded his acquiescence and headed into the restaurant, Mark falling into step behind him. Once they were seated – at a private table, Mark noted – the two shared a series of awkward stares and silences before Benny asked, "So how's he doing?"

"Collins told you," Mark said shortly. "He… messed up, but I think he knows it."

"No, Mark," Benny shook his head. "I don't mean how's that going, I mean… How is he, really? Has he accepted she's gone, has he started the medications… the little stuff, Mark. It's what's going to make or break the whole thing, you know?"

Mark laughed, startled. "The little stuff, Benny? There is no little stuff; that's the problem."

"Yeah," Benny admitted slowly, "yeah, you're right. How are you holding up?"

"Okay," Mark lied immediately. At Benny's skeptical look, he revised, "I'll manage. With Collins around it won't be so hard."

"Well, you two are the ones he needs, Mark, I can tell you that much," Benny said calmly. "You're the ones who'll love him no matter what he does." Mark jumped in his seat before realizing that Benny hadn't meant it in the way he was presently learning to accept. "Collins… he's a little more careful about it than you, but he'd go to the ends of the earth for him – for either of you."

Mark nodded solemnly, knowing it was true. "The medicine really helps," he said awkwardly. "He's… still in a lot of pain, but he… he doesn't cry so much. Doesn't shake so much," Mark added, almost as an afterthought.

"Just remember, Mark, that's probably not all the withdrawal," Benny pointed out seriously. "He's got a lot going on right now, the depression's just making it worse. And as for the medication, I'm glad, but I'm not so sure that that's that simple, either. You spend a lot of time with him after you give him it, don't you?"

Mark stared at him blankly, not getting the connection.

"I mean… It probably just helps him having you around, Mark."

Mark continued staring, then realization dawned on his face and he scoffed. "Collins put you up to this, didn't he?" he asked, though there was nothing accusing in his tone.

The confusion on Benny's face was evidence enough he was telling the truth. "Hm?" he grunted, tilting his head slightly.

"Collins has been pushing…" Mark paused, not knowing what to say. Eventually he threw up his hands in defeat, saying, "For something. I don't get what."

Benny sighed heavily as the pieces gradually began to click. Collins had withheld much of the story, but he'd hinted at whatever was happening between Mark and Roger specifically enough for Benny to realize that whether Mark knew it or not, he loved Roger; he was probably in love with Roger. Benny saw the whole thing rather more selfishly than Collins, though – he didn't think bringing it into the open would help; if anything, he thought, it would be what finally broke Mark down. Benny didn't know anything about how Roger felt, or how sincere he'd been earlier that day, but the fact remained that he couldn't bring himself to see it as a positive.

Was it jealousy? He wondered idly. That Roger, in fucking up colossally, had risen emotions in Mark that Benny hadn't been able to by really being with him? No, he thought, whatever feelings he had for Mark had matured and mellowed into friendship, tempered alternately by jealousy for Mark's ability to be true to himself and contempt for his inability to face the truth about the world. What he felt towards Roger right now was nothing like what he'd felt towards Maureen when Mark had first disclosed his relationship with her. He'd wanted to hate her then realized he couldn't, then he'd gotten over Mark and that had been the end of it. For Roger, he felt only pity and concern, despite the steadfast, niggling knowledge that the musician had brought all of his problems onto himself.

That was the difference between Mark and Benny. That was the difference between Benny and who he used to be. Benny felt sorry for Roger because they'd been friends, once, but Roger's wild ways and Benny's newfound conservatism had broken any love the two had ever had for each other. To Mark and Collins, love, even for Benny and Roger, despite Benny's becoming the antithesis of what they wanted to be and Roger's seeming determination to self-destruct, transcended mistakes and misguidedness. Benny wasn't the best of company any more, but he did well by Mark and Collins and they'd kept up at least minimal contact as a result. Roger had been worse company and far from the best of friends, but Mark loved him and that was all he needed to know.

Benny didn't believe it, but Mark did, and he was going to keep at it whether Benny approved or not. "Mark," Benny began seriously. Mark's head jerked up, his eyes wide. "Look, it doesn't matter how he got where he is, not if he can come back. And if he needs some help on the way…" he forced a smile, "well, we all do sometimes, huh?"

Mark nodded gratefully. Despite the bitter taste the words had left in the back of his throat – he was wrong, he realized vaguely, he _was_ jealous of Roger – Benny suddenly found himself inexplicably glad he'd said it.

* * *

Roger was fighting the all-too-familiar urge to cry when Collins sat beside him on the couch. "You've been here six hours," Collins said, his gentleness masking concern. "You haven't eaten, you don't sleep, you haven't been to the bathroom…"

Roger shrugged half-heartedly, stopping to wince when his shoulders caught. "Haven't needed to," he rasped, trembling a little when he adjusted the blanket around his too-thin frame again. "Haven't wanted to. Collins, please – this isn't great, but it's working for me, I promise if I need something I'll let you know. Last time I tried getting up I puked for half an hour. I still feel sick this way, but…" Roger made a defeated sound. "It doesn't matter. I don't think I could go far if I tried."

"Well, I can't say it'll put you out," Collins began, pulling a tin from his pocket and flipping it open. He produced a joint from the tin. "But it oughta do you some good, f'you're up to smoking it."

Roger stared at him. "Isn't that… kinda counter productive?"

"Pot's not smack," Collins replied matter-of-factly, lighting the joint. "I'd rather see you smoke pot, feel better, and get a little stupid than sit here like this. Those pills you're eating? That's a drug, too."

Roger shrugged, wary of his limited freedom of movement this time, and took the offered joint. "Whatever you say," he said exhausted. "Seems like what I can and can't do is up to you and Mark lately."

"Oh, no, don't you go pinning this on us," Collins said, shaking his head. "First off, other than smack, you can do whatever the hell you want. Second off, you asked for help. You're the one who wanted away from this. I won't say Mark and I weren't both glad, but the choice was all you."

"I know," Roger said softly, smoke curling from his mouth. "But neither of you fucking understands, not at all."

"Try me," Collins said flatly, pausing to suck on the joint. "I got through grad school on eightballs, Roger." Roger looked startled, but Collins plowed on, engrossed enough in telling his story to detach from his friend's shock. "And if I couldn't get that, I didn't think a damn thing of replacing it with crack. Took testing positive to knock some sense into me." Roger made a small sound, almost of protest, and Collins looked at him pointedly, blowing out smoke. "Sounding familiar yet?" he asked, getting Roger's attention by waving the joint's heater in his face. "Now look, coke withdrawal doesn't do the physical shit. But that whole thing where you want to jump out a window? I've been there. I promise, it goes away. And when it does, Roger, it'll be worth it. When things get better… you really appreciate the little things. Smoking a cigarette, taking a hot bath, falling asleep with a lover, eating a good meal… It all seems huge. You start to wonder why you ever needed the drugs. Which isn't to say they don't still look damned appealing sometimes, but being alive, having love, having your friends… It's worth more than any chemical ever could be, Rog. You wanna show Mark how you feel," Collins began slowly, ignoring Roger's annoyed look and blush, "you tough this out. And another thing," Collins stopped to take another drag of the joint before returning it to Roger. "You really should be taking your AZT. Now look, I know the stuff can throw you for a loop. You're sick already, and that stuff isn't gonna help how you feel."

"It's pointless," Roger said with a sigh. "I tried it, Collins, I swear. Never keep it down long enough for it to be worthwhile, and it makes me feel like hell. Besides, what's the point? If all it's gonna do is make me sick and maybe buy me another year… fuck it. I'd rather feel good for two years than be sick for three."

"Don't underestimate yourself or your medicine. It's making you sicker because you need something on your stomach when you take it, and you should make two years even without medicine. I don't know what they told you, but odds are you're stuck around here at least a good five or six years AZT or not, and if you can get used to it and it can take that time and increase it… that's a good thing. I know with how you feel right now that's not exactly encouraging, but this whole passive suicide thing's not gonna fly, Roger, so you might as well get over it."

"It's not that fucking easy, Collins," Roger snapped. "For all the chattering you fucking did about understanding, you should know that! But I guess you don't. They're different drugs, never mind…" Roger stopped himself. "Never mind everything else."

"Never mind April," Collins finished for him, softly. "Roger, she wasn't your fault."

"If I hadn't still been using…" he started to protest in a small voice. He made a noise of self-disgust, flicking the still lit roach into the ashtray in front of him. "Who am I kidding? I'm still fucking using. But if I'd listened to her… If I'd listened to you, to Mark, to Maureen… April was a tough girl. April was strong. But… she couldn't take losing me. That's not my ego, that's just… what she said. The night before she got her test results. 'I can't stand here and watch you die, Roger, and if you don't get your act together it's gonna come to something drastic.' Yeah," he choked out a laugh that seemed half sob. "It sure fucking did. If she'd thought I could be there for her…"

"If I'd never slept with Sean, if I'd never used coke, if I'd never taught you and Mark's philosophy class…" Collins shook his head. "Good changes and bad ones. But those changes? Never gonna happen. The best thing you can do for April now is make what you can out of your life. She'd have wanted you to be happy."

"She'd have wanted Mark to be happy," Roger mumbled miserably. "Half the time I think I was just an obligation."

"Uh huh. And if she wanted Mark, why was she with you? April always went for what she wanted. If it had been anyone else, it wouldn't have taken long for you to figure it out. Before all this, Roger, did you care about Mark?"

"Of course," Roger replied immediately, sounding insulted.

"And would you have given April up for him?"

"I…"

"Not now, Roger. Back then."

Roger frowned, not following. "I… no, I guess not. But that doesn't mean…"

"That you wanted anything to happen to Mark, or that you didn't care about him. April was the same. Now, I'll give you that Mark was who she needed back then. You weren't in a position to give her the support she needed to do what she wanted to. But they were friends, Roger; friends are allowed to lean on each other a little sometimes."

Roger shrugged. "Hey, I never said I was blaming her even if it was true. Just an observation."

"Being down on yourself doesn't help anyone, you know," Collins said tiredly. "Makes you feel bad, makes Mark and I worry…"

"Well stop," Roger muttered flatly. "It's not gonna go away, but I'll cope."

Collins sighed. "It goes away," he repeated firmly. "'Til then, Mark and I are gonna do our best, but we need you to, too."

Roger bowed his head slightly, as if he were going to nod but had fallen asleep halfway. Finally, he whispered, "Collins, I'm… hungry."

Collins laughed loudly, encouraged, and slapped him on the back. Roger jerked away with a hiss, his arms tensing. "Back hurts," he managed breathlessly.

Collins frowned. "Sorry," he apologized, wrapping his arms around Roger and squeezing gently. "I'm gonna go make us some soup."

"I'm starving and you're feeding me soup?" Roger said incredulously. "Collins, what the fuck? That's the dumbest…"

"How long's it been since you ate something solid?" Collins demanded, stopping Roger in his tracks.

"I… think Mark made me eat a sandwich four days ago," Roger murmured, his cheeks coloring. "I just… haven't been…"

"I know, but throwing something substantial on your stomach right now, Roger… It'd be one step forward, two steps back," Collins explained, seeing Roger soften with the knowledge he was right. Roger listened to Collins a little better than he did most people. "Soup should fill you up, and it's a lot more likely to stay on your stomach."

Roger nodded slowly. He felt better, but his eyes were half open and when he moved his muscles felt as if he was trying to swim through honey. His mind and body worked languorously, every movement making him question whether food was really worth staying awake. In the end, what it was or wasn't worth became irrelevant. Roger curled around a pillow, trying to get comfortable, and fell asleep by the time Collins had opened the soup can. Floating in dreamless blackness, Roger was the most comfortable he'd been in a long time.

Setting the soup aside, Collins smiled to himself. For the first time, he had real faith that things would work out. He just hoped Mark and Roger both got through it in one piece.


End file.
